Ghosts in the Snow
by Ophelia Elizabeth
Summary: The girl had an innate sense of curiosity – a love for mysteries, enigmas and inscrutabilities. The girl was Frances Cecil, and Regulus Arcturus Black was her favourite mystery.
1. Prologue

**GHOSTS IN THE SNOW**

* * *

_"I tried to forget  
But you grew roots around my ribcage  
And sprouted flowers  
Just below my collarbones  
All day I pluck their petals  
But I have not yet ascertained  
Whether you love me  
Or not."_

Unknown, Forget Me Not

...

The boy was the heir to a great ancient line - the largest, oldest, and wealthiest pure-blood wizarding family in the British Isles - the House of Black. For untold centuries they had been raising goblets of elf-made wine to proud cries of "_Toujours Pur_!" They were illustrious, notorious, and decadent - and this was a birth right the boy would soon assume.

The girl was the daughter of a political dynasty - a family that had snagged a prominent foothold in every sector of wizarding society; the Cecils. They were powerful, to be sure, wealthy, too, and possessed an influence so unparalleled. They had bred generations worth of celebrated witches and wizards, officials, diplomats, department Heads, bankers, proprietors - even Ministers for Magic.

The Blacks and the Cecils had been rivals since time immemorial. The Blacks (and every other respectable pure-blood family) were said to dislike the Cecils for their inferiority of blood - the Cecils blatantly disregarded any notion of maintaining a pure-blood line; instead favouring witches and wizards of talent, ambition and political acumen, and instilling these beliefs into their children. The Blacks would say that it was an inversion of the natural order of things for a family of dirty blood to maintain such a tight grip on the wizarding world.

"_Snivelling politicians... money hungry, despicable_..." cried the pure-bloods – unless they were in financial difficulty, in which case the Cecils would suddenly become old friends.

The Cecils were supposed to dislike the Blacks for their personification of every flaw in wizarding society - greed, corruption, nepotism, violence, and unwavering conservatism. But most of all, the Blacks' ingrained pure-blood mania - the Cecils vehemently maintained that it was a cancerous manifestation that would bring about the collapse of the wizarding world if it was not eradicated.

Some claim that the Cecils were merely envious of the Black inheritance, and that they too wished to elevate themselves to the status of wizarding nobility.

Others say it was the duel between Indus Black and Apollo Cecil in 1653 that had plunged the families into open warfare - Apollo was said to have lain a crushing defeat on the Black patriarch, after which hostility grew tenfold.

The boy unquestionably obeyed the expostulations of the Blacks, and was eager to perpetuate the tradition of his great family; particularly anything purported by the formidable Walburga and the conspiratorial Orion. And the girl was determined to adopt Cecil ideology, and planned on following her ancestors into politics and slighting the pure-blooded elite.

The boy was quiet, thoughtful and obedient. The girl had an innate sense of curiosity, a love for mysteries, enigmas and inscrutabilities - so that she when she found one, she picked it apart and spread the pieces across the table - scrutinizing each and every piece until every flaw, and every weakness was uncovered. She would pull at its boundaries, prod at its limits and crush its frontiers until it was stripped bare of any falsity or façade and it lay in all its truth. Only then was the mystery solved.

The girl was Frances Cecil, and Regulus Arcturus Black was her favourite mystery.

* * *

_A/N: My latest project! I seem to be deleting stories and starting them over quite a lot these days. I decided to post this prologue, and judge whether I should continue or not depending on what everyone has to say – or whether anyone will actually say something lol._

_Side-note: the Black/Cecil feud is not in the style of Capulet vs. Montague in _Romeo and Juliet. _It's more of an ideological war as opposed to a physical one. Kind of like the Cold War between the US and the Soviet Union in the sixties and seventies if you catch my drift._

_Anyway, hope to hear from you all :)_


	2. I

I.

_A Light to Burn All the Empires_

* * *

**September 1, 1976**

**F**ifteen-year-old Frances Cecil strode purposefully towards the wrought-iron gate of the Minister for Magic's home. Even though she was a frequent visitor to the house its beauty never failed to enthral her - perched on a hill in the South Downs of Hampshire, the home was a very grand manor made out of an amber-coloured sandstone, with tall, white pillars standing guard by the wide front door, and a vast emerald green lawn preceding the imposing estate.

Frances pressed her hand confidently to the gate's lock.

"State your name and business," commanded the lock in a clear, no-nonsense tone.

Frances grinned. "Frances Mary Cecil, requesting the presence of one Gilbert Henry Bagnold whose arse needs to be inside the car within the next two minutes or we'll be missing the train to Hogwarts." Knowing her cousin was listening, she added: "Seriously, though, I don't think the Express is going to wait for anyone – not even the Minister for Magic's son."

With a sharp _crack, _Gilbert Bagnold appeared beside her, trunk and owl cage in hand – the house-elf that had Apparated him there disappearing before Frances could get a second glance.

"Bertie! How the devil are you?" she grinned, relieving him of the cage as they walked back to the Ministry car.

"I couldn't find my Prefect badge this morning," he said, sounding slightly breathless, "thought I lost it. Mum ended up finding it in one of her coffee mugs just before she left for work," he explained as they buckled up their seat-belts. "I see you had no problem finding yours," he added, gesturing to the green and silver badge pinned neatly to Frances' robes.

Bertie Bagnold was a scatter-brained boy of fifteen – he was tall with an awkward, lanky gait, his hair was a slightly dishevelled dark brown, and his murky green eyes were obscured by a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles. He was Frances' cousin (their mothers were sisters), but they'd often regarded each other as brother and sister – in the wake of both of them having a set of very busy parents, the pair had grown up together and were very close.

The driver of the Ministry car weaved expertly through the southern hills of Hampshire County despite the lack of road – Frances suspected magic was an aid in this. The drive to Kings Cross Station in London would take about an hour and a half, so Frances made herself comfortable in the soft leather of the car seat. Frances and Bertie settled into a comfortable silence for the rest of the trip, punctuated every now and then by a burst of conversation.

As they were passing through Chertsey in Surrey, Frances quietly asked: "So, have you _heard_ anything?"

As both their parents were prominent members of the Wizarding community, the pair had made it their mission to snoop quietly on the conversations their parents had, in the hope that they would glean useful information about the current state of affairs – most importantly though, about the one who called himself Lord Voldemort.

Bertie was in a prime position for such a task. His mother was Millicent Bagnold, the Minister for Magic, and his father was Henry Bagnold, the editor-in-chief of the_ Daily Prophet. _Frances meanwhile had a Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic for a mother, and a Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation for a father.

"You know when you were reading the paper the other week and there was that tiny article about those ten missing Aurors?" Bertie asked, and Frances nodded in the affirmative, "I heard Mum talking yesterday. Apparently nine of them were killed. They were all captured, but one of them managed to escape."

"Merlin," breathed Frances in awe and horror, "_nine Aurors _killed in one day. I can imagine why they didn't print it in the paper. How were they all captured?"

"All we know is that Death Eaters were involved. They were sent out to investigate a disturbance somewhere up in Northumberland and only one of them came back – he's in St Mungo's now and they can't get much out of him since he's barely conscious."

Frances stared out the window as she processed the tragedy. _Nine Aurors. _Nine talented Duellists who were obviously well versed in defensive magic, in Death Eater strategy, and experienced through age. If nine Aurors could be killed so easily, what chance did she have of surviving this war? How long until her mother and Aunt Millicent were targeted – murdered or Imperiused - so they could be replaced by someone who would do the Dark Lord's bidding? How long until her father would be silenced for that weekly column he wrote advocating equality in the wizarding community?

"One of the Aurors that died was Cicero Collins – Sylvia's dad," Bertie said solemnly. Sylvia Collins was a sweet-tempered girl from Ravenclaw whom she shared a number of classes with – the two had only spoken a few times, but Frances felt a sudden surge of sympathy for poor Sylvia.

As they approached inner London the heavens opened, and a light, misty rain began to fall. Perhaps it was the illusion of the rain, but Frances felt that London seemed sadder. As she lived on England's south-west coast, visits to the United Kingdom's capital were rare – but she felt that each time she visited, she could see a marked change in the city. Ten years ago it was more alive – as an avid reader of the Muggle news, she knew that the nineteen sixties had marked an end towards years of economic recession following the Second World War. The mood was more optimistic back then, and London had been a flurry of new construction and reinstated confidence.

But it had been short-lived. The British Empire was being dismantled right before the eyes of the disbelieving imperialists, the country's place in the world and global influence were shrinking, the economy was crumbling, pessimism was returning, and a new generation of disenchanted youth were causing havoc on the streets.

She thought it interesting that as Wizarding Britain fell apart, it was taking Muggle Britain down with it.

* * *

It was Regulus Black's first time at King's Cross without Sirius.

He still remembered the first time Sirius had boarded the train, when he'd stood on the Platform by his mother, barely able to see through the smoke and his own tears, and waved goodbye to his older brother as he grew smaller and smaller as the scarlet train carried him further and further away. He'd never told Sirius how much he'd missed him in the months that he was away, and how glad he was to have him back for Christmas.

But things were different when Sirius returned. Regulus didn't understand why Sirius wouldn't take his red and gold tie off, why he didn't care when Mother hit him – even when it drew blood. He didn't understand why Sirius laughed when his mother's shrill screams echoed off the walls of the house when she discovered the Gryffindor banner he'd stuck to his bedroom wall, nor why Sirius was determined to disagree every time Orion Black made a quip about Muggle-borns over his morning paper – even after that time their father had broken a plate over his eldest son's head when he'd finally lost his patience.

Sirius had left at the beginning of the summer and nobody was allowed to speak of him anymore – but they were always reminded of him every time they walked past the drawing room, where the vulgar stench of burnt fabric still hung, where an ugly, charred black hole replaced the image of his older brother on the family tapestry.

"Oy, Reg!"

Regulus turned around, and was met with a slightly harassed-looking Leonidas Parkinson.

"Alright, Leo?"

"Yeah, good. I've been calling you for ages, mate, didn't you hear?"

Regulus shrugged dismissively, and made to board the Express.

"Know where any of the others have got to?" inquired Leonidas as he scrunched his upturned nose against the unmistakable stench of a Dungbomb.

"No idea. Can't meet you all anyway just yet," said Regulus, and pointed to the badge pinned to his robes in explanation.

"You got Prefect? Well, I suppose we all knew it was going to be you; you've always been a favourite of Sluggy's. Which girl got Prefect?"

"Guess," said Regulus bitterly as he made his way through the corridor towards the Prefect's Compartment.

Leonidas Parkinson was silent for a few moments as he considered the possibilities. "It's not that Cecil bint is it?" Regulus answered with a perfunctory narrowing of his dark eyes, and Leonidas knew he had guessed correctly. "Well, fuck. Now we've got another Ashwinder in a position of power. When Evan hears he's going to – "

"They aren't a _threat _to us, Leo," Regulus said darkly as he reached the door of the Compartment.

"I never said they were," countered Leonidas, whose expression seemed to somehow ice over, as if preparing for an oncoming attack.

"Definitely sounded as if you were suggesting it. I'll see you later, alright?"

"Yeah. See you."

Regulus reluctantly entered the compartment, and seated himself by seventh-year Theodore Nott, who offered him a brief greeting before turning back to his conversation with sixth-year Giselle Yaxley. In his boredom, he allowed his eyes to sweep over the small room, his gaze landing on the oblivious Frances Cecil.

The Cecil upstart was laughing in that impetuous way of hers with her Ravenclaw cousin Gilbert Bagnold, the Minister for Magic's scrawny son. She was a small, bony little thing, with a pallid complexion and thin face. She had the typical Cecil colouring of light eyes and hair – her eyes were very blue and her hair was a red-blonde.

He knew little about her, despite the fact that they had shared a common room for the past four years (not that he had ever inquired after her, of course). He did know she was supposed to be a talented witch – if Professor Slughorn's frequent exclamations were anything to go by, but then again, Slughorn claimed the brilliance of anyone who had a surname he deemed of worth. He also knew she was a prominent Ashwinder – and that was going to be an issue.

"I think we're ready to begin!" exclaimed the Head Boy, Cyril Merrythought, a Hufflepuff. His counterpart, Frieda Marchbanks, a Slytherin, agreed, and Regulus quickly averted his eyes from Frances Cecil, lest he be caught gazing at her – a truly mortifying possibility. Regulus paid as much attention as he could to the meeting, wanting to adequately perform the role Slughorn had bestowed upon him, regardless of the reservations he had about his partner. Remaining in Slughorn's favour had always been an ambition of his – for despite the old man's irksome nature, their Head of House was always a valuable ally to have.

Merrythought and Marchbanks worked in tandem as they explained the duties of the Prefects for the year, and relayed the expectations they would be required to uphold. The point-docking system was explained for the benefit of the fifth-years, and they each received a little notebook in which they were supposed to record each point they took and each detention they gave out. The passwords for the prefect's common room were given, as well as the one for the prefect's bathroom and their own house common rooms. The timetables for patrols were passed around, clearly displaying the Saturday night patrol with Frances Cecil that he would have to endure.

"Professor Dumbledore has asked me to remind you that due to the uh… _current state of affairs _you're to remain with your partner for your patrol. So that means no wandering around the castle late at night and on your own," said Merrythought.

Regulus' mind immediately conjured up his own expectation of patrols – traipsing around a cold castle, with Frances Cecil for company as she self-righteously lectured him with pro-Muggle propaganda and whatever other erroneous bile that dirt-veined family of hers had taught her.

"But what if we don't want to do patrols with the other prefect from our house? Could we swap with someone else if we liked?" inquired Isla Brocklehurst from Hufflepuff sweetly, whose hand had been raised and had waited patiently to be called on.

"There will be no swapping," answered Frieda Marchbanks sternly, her tone not unlike Professor McGonagall's. "It will be male and female partners of the same house and year as it always has been. If, however, you cannot attend a patrol due to some other obligation you're to let either myself or Cyril know and we'll arrange for someone to take your place. Any other questions?"

There were no other questions and the prefects were dismissed. Regulus Black made his way out of the compartment.

* * *

The Great Hall was lit up in its usual splendour. The enchanted indigo sky was besprent with twinkling stars, candles hovered above the sea of black-clad students, and golden plates and goblets glittered in the light.

The Sorting Ceremony was currently taking place and Regulus was paying a waning amount of attention to the proceedings.

"Cecil, Alfred!" called Professor McGonagall from the front of the Hall. Regulus heard a few intakes of breath around him, and he knew what they were all hoping for.

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

"Cecil, Eris!"

"SLYTHERIN!"

"Oh, for the love of… " sighed someone.

"Another one?!"

"I swear to Merlin this school is going to have a full-scale Cecil infestation," muttered Calista Flint, who sat across from Regulus.

Calista Flint was in Regulus' year, and she was a statuesque, porcelain-skinned beauty. She had battleship-grey eyes, glossy black hair that she had weaved into an elegant chignon at the back of her head, and full lips glazed in a gloss the colour of rosé wine. Calista was a stark contrast against her older brother, Claudius, whose dim wits and troll-like appearance had always been a subject of mockery.

"And what do you suppose we do about it, Lissie?" inquired Victoria Runcorn offhandedly, an eyebrow raised.

"It's not just those Cecils that are the problem. We've got an Ashwinder for a Head Girl this year, how did we let that happen?"

"So we cut off the Ashwinder's head," said Regulus, fluidly entering the conversation.

"You're going to kill Frieda Marchbanks?!" squeaked second-year Esmeralda Crabbe, her hands clapped over her mouth in terror.

"Of course we aren't going to _kill _Marchbanks you stupid girl," snapped Calista impatiently, "it was a _figure of speech_."

"We need to break them," continued Regulus, as his eyes flicked towards the other end of the table where the opposing Slytherin faction sat. "They've brought disgrace to this house for long enough. _And _– we can't let them sink their claws into this years' first-years."

"Hear, hear," said Calista Flint, her pink lips curving into a dangerous smile.

* * *

_The Socio-cultural Impact of the First and Second Wizarding Wars on Magical Britain, _A. E. Knightley, 2005.

"… _at the time of the War, little, if anything, was known of this bizarre student association that called itself the 'Ashwinder Syndicate' – named of course after the Ashwinder, a serpent that is created from the remains of any magical fire that is left to burn unchecked._

_It was a motley collection of Slytherin students comprised of Pure-bloods disillusioned with their traditional ways, Muggle-borns who refused to be ashamed of their parentage, and Half-bloods who were not going to pretend to be otherwise. The Syndicate was not able to separate itself from the elitism that so characterised their House, for the association was always headed by those from prominent and wealthy families, under the pretence of being able to shield the weak beneath their Nekhbet-like wings of protection._

_The origins of the Ashwinder Syndicate are unclear, though it appears to have been in operation from as early as 1931, as it is clearly referred to in a letter written by Dorea Potter (née Black) …"_

_..._

* * *

_**A/N**__: Hello, all! I know it's been a very long time since I've last updated this story, but after a complete overhaul of the plot I previously planned out, and after I regained the motivation I started with, this chapter happened._

_Thank you for all those who reviewed the first chapter I posted, I appreciated it immensely and your comments always make me happy :) Feel free to leave any feedback – especially any constructive criticism you may have. I'm especially worried about whether I'm managing the POV changes properly (please share your thoughts on this), as well as my grammar – I tend to shove commas and hyphens everywhere, no idea why._

_Also, I don't know whether I wrote the scene properly, but the Slytherin students did not cry out in annoyance when Eris Cecil was Sorted because they had some particular dislike for Frances, but rather because they're opposed to _any _Cecil being in their house. Didn't want you all to get the wrong idea._

_Chapter 2 will not take nearly as long as this one. Hope to hear from you guys :)_

_P.S. There is no such book called "The Socio-cultural Impact…", but more info on the Ashwinders shall come in good time._

_This author's note is way too long and I apologise._


End file.
